Martyred
by plenoptic
Summary: Postwar. If a hero is lucky enough to avoid becoming a memory, he may very well become something far worse. Dark, AU, oneshot.


**Martyred**

_Plenoptic_

* * *

Heavy footsteps echoed like thunder in the large chamber. It was not empty by any means; countless Cybertronians were crowded into the viewing stands, bots of various allegiances, all wearing the same solemn, bitter expressions.

The prisoner stopped in the middle of the platform, nodding silently to his guards before tilting his helmeted head upwards, blue optics squinting in the painfully bright lights that flanked his single judge and juror.

"For crimes of war including, but not limited to: the use of highly destructive weaponry…"

The two guards, now standing back from the prisoner, exchanged a glance, equally and preemptively infuriated by what they were about to hear.

"…the draining of planetary resources, including, but not limited to, energon, ammunition, medical supplies…"

In the stands, a mech blacker than empty space glanced around. Countless Autobot faces were locked on the prisoner, some stoic, some full of fear, some already weeping silently. Ironhide lowered his helm, reaching over to gently grip the hand of his sparkmate. Chromia was trembling faintly, but her fingers closed around his with surprising strength.

"…the death of Neutral individuals, the destruction of Neutral provinces and states, the death and mass murder of innocent civilians…"

A harsh sob broke the relative silence. Chromia shuttered her optics tightly, releasing her grip on Ironhide's hand to turn to the rosy femme at her side. Elita One had one hand clamped tightly over her mouth, restraining further sound, both blue optics trained in quiet agony on the prisoner.

"…the destruction of planetary property, provinces, and states; the usurpation of the title of Prime without due process of law and ceremony; the murder of the High Protectorate of Cybertron…"

Ironhide released an audible growl, optics narrowing dangerously. Chromia placed a stern hand on his knee, shaking her head minutely. He settled, but his blue optics, normally so full of fire, settled with cold fury on the speaking Councilor.

"…the loss of the Allspark, a sacred artifact; the theft of the Matrix of Leadership, a sacred artifact; confrontation with a terrorist organization at the risk of innocent civilian lives…"

Ironhide found himself fighting to keep from leaping from his seat and strangling the speaker. He felt a firm hand close on his shoulder, but didn't have to turn to know that Ultra Magnus, even when holding down his comrade, was struggling to restrain his own fury.

"…and, lastly, the total and utter destruction of the peace and civil order of Cybertron, this most noble of planets." High Councilor Xannax set down the list of charges, leaning forward over his podium to observe the prisoner coldly. "Do you understand the charges of which you stand accused?"

The prisoner spoke for the first time, voice hoarse and low from lack of use. "…I do."

"Do you understand that these are serious charges unprecedented in Cybertron's long history, in accordance with the Covenant kept by the Archivist, Alpha Trion?"

"…I do…"

"Before the High Council renders its decision final, do you have any explanation for your actions that have led to the near destruction of our noble planet and its inhabitants?"

The prisoner flinched as if struck, bowing his head, fighting the call of the twin spark nearly clawing at his own, rendered nearly speechless by the waves of agony pounding him from his sparkmate's side of their bond.

"I do not," he managed at last, and for the first time the silence was broken by a ripple of murmurs in the crowd. One of the Councilors roared for quiet, and his request was granted at once.

"Very well," Xannax said at length, sitting back in his seat. "The Council will now render its verdict."

Inhaling deeply, he leaned forward once more, to stare very purposefully into the battle-worn optics of the prisoner, of the last monstrous instrument of the Cybertronian War.

"This High Council of Cybertron finds the prisoner, Optimus Prime, guilty of all charges. The sentence shall be death by firing squad."

The crowd erupted at once, some cheering, others screaming, still others making noise for the sake of making noise. Ironhide exploded into furious roars, pointing one finger up at Xannax, faceplates twisted into a hideous snarl; Ultra Magnus had gotten to his feet and was glaring up at the Council members, all of whom avidly avoided his gaze.

Elita One, curled in upon herself, heard only white noise. Lifting her bent head, her optics traced the long, tall lines of her bonded's profile, trailing with lingering familiarity from his strong legs to proud torso to his brokenly handsome visage. Well aware of her gaze, Optimus Prime turned his head to the side, meeting her optics. Their sparklink was heavy with empty grief, wrought with such superb agony that she shuddered, but couldn't bring herself to tear her gaze away from the mech she cherished above all else.

"Order, please!" Xannax was shouting, and even with his voice booming over the stereo system, the crowd would not calm. Eventually Councilor Pyxon stepped forward, lifting his arms and entreating for quiet. The noise died after several breems, and the Council leaned forward to address the prisoner directly.

"The Council is aware, Optimus," he began gently, spark breaking at the turn of events. He had always been fond of Sentinel's successor. Optimus had proven himself to be smart, loyal, and infallibly brave above and beyond the call of duty; it was a shame that history would see him as hellish brute bent on the utter destruction of an opposing rebel faction… "This Council is well aware that you have taken a sparkmate, and that your bond has long since been consummated. This Council has no desire to see more unnecessary death. In lieu of your earlier sentence, it has been decided that you shall be confined, with very limited visitation, in an appropriate prison facility for as long as you may function. Do you object?"

"_I_ object," Ironhide snarled, getting to his feet and transforming the formidable cannons mounted on his forearms. "Optimus saved this planet! He stopped Megatron! _Megatron_ was the monster! You're punishing an innocent mech! You're punishing Cybertron's _hero!_"

The crowd erupted once more, the majority cheering Ironhide's words, adding their own opinions in a deafening roar; a small percentage objected loudly, while the rest sat in relative silence.

"The decision of this Council stands!" Xannax boomed, having once again taken control of the speaker system. "Optimus Prime has been found guilty of horrific crimes of war and will serve the sentence as dictated by this High Council of Cybertron!"

The roar of the crowd drowned him out almost entirely. Fights erupted in the stands, from small scuffles to all-out brawls. Chromia was knocked over by a mech trying to get to Ironhide, and when she stood again, it was to find that Elita One had vaulted over the wall in the commotion and had reached her sparkmate. Chromia could only watch sadly as Elita stood before her bonded, drawing him close with one hand clutching his chestplates while the other lifted to cradle his cheek. Hands bound behind his back and unable to return her touch, he pressed his forehead to hers and spoke to her in hushed, desperate tones, faceplates twisting in pain when she shouted and banged a fist against his chest.

Chromia slowly climbed over the stand wall, approaching the center of the room as if in a trance, only able to watch in dull horror as three new guards stepped in to replace the furious Sunstreaker and Sideswipe. Elita One was dragged off of her sparkmate, fighting the whole way, screaming his name as Optimus was gripped roughly and pulled off of the floor. The guard dropped Elita, confiscating her engaged weapon before joining his comrades in escorting the shellshocked prisoner from the court.

Elita didn't move from where she had fallen, frame going rigid when the doors closed behind her bonded's retreating back. A tremor shook her, and all at once she collapsed, folding in on herself with a scream. Pressing her foreplate to the ground, she went on until her vocalizer shorted out, wailing and howling her agony.

Having barely made it in time to catch her fallen commander, above the din of the chaos, Chromia was the only one who heard.

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**Written a long while ago. I'd like to think I've improved since then. Short, brutally sad, but the reality is that the heroes in war are often the villains upon returning home.**


End file.
